


I appeal to your scratches and your tattered fur.

by Kaesteranya



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-03
Updated: 2010-06-03
Packaged: 2017-10-18 23:40:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaesteranya/pseuds/Kaesteranya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If FOXDIE doesn’t kill you first,” Otacon says, some two hours and a hell lot of stitches later, “you will.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I appeal to your scratches and your tattered fur.

**Author's Note:**

> I figure that this one takes place between MGS2 and MGS4. The title is taken from the 31 Days theme for December 3, 2008.

Otacon has come to define their relationship in bandages, antiseptic, the cloying scent of Marlboro Reds and taste of cheap alcohol. There are other things, of course, things that involve blood and rain, but that sort of stuff is too poetic for his tastes.

  
“Don’t… say a word.”

  
“Too late. I’m already talking.”

  
He hadn’t been strong enough to pick Snake up off the floor outside of his apartment and drag him inside, but with the things they fought and the things they did in their free time, he figures that he shouldn’t be surprised that it’s getting easier and easier to play a broken soldier’s crutch.

  
“Here. Drink this. I’ll patch that up.”

  
“No need.”

  
“Stop acting tough.”

  
There are times when Snake’s more like a sullen schoolboy than a super soldier, and Otacon takes advantage of this by moving deftly, quickly and never taking no for an answer. That, and Otacon has always felt the need to study the man’s aging and ever injured body with his own eyes, to remember why he has to put up with expecting the unexpected 24/7. That, and a cold bottle of whiskey really helps take the edge off the pain.

  
“If FOXDIE doesn’t kill you first,” Otacon says, some two hours and a hell lot of stitches later, “you will.”

  
“Dying out on the field’s the only way I ought to go,” Snake replies, as he takes another swig from the bottle.

  
They don’t talk until sunrise, and it’s only because somebody has to pass the butter over the breakfast table.  



End file.
